


keep me safe, i'll keep you wild

by splendidlyimperfect



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon Universe, Caretaking, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Geralt's an idiot, Geralt's kind of an ass but he didn't mean it, Guilt, I just like hurting the sunshine child okay, I promise, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jaskier's got it bad for Geralt, M/M, Major Character Injury, Monsters, Sign Language, it ends soft and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splendidlyimperfect/pseuds/splendidlyimperfect
Summary: After Geralt's outburst at the dragon's lair, Jaskier makes his way back down the mountain by himself. But the night is dark, and the mountains aren't safe, and Geralt soon comes to regret his harsh words.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 478
Kudos: 2887
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. the night is dark

**Author's Note:**

> My superpower as a writer is "make it sadder" so enjoy some angst >.<
> 
> Find me on tumblr as [@splendidlyimperfect](https://splendidlyimperfect.tumblr.com/)

The worst part about this whole goddamn thing is that Jaskier knows Geralt didn’t mean it.

Geralt is crude, sure. Coarse, indecorous, occasionally uncouth. He’s generally oblivious, usually stubborn, and always aloof. What Gerald is not, however, is cruel. 

“Stupid, pig-headed oaf,” Jaskier grumbles, hefting his pack and glaring up at the late afternoon sun as if it’s to blame for the current state of affairs. “Why I bother with him is beyond me.”

The sun doesn’t answer him, and he sighs, rubbing his face and kicking up a cloud of dirt. It leaves a dark streak on his shoe and he scowls at it. “Could nothing go right today?” he demands. “If that idiot had just listened to me, we could be on our way to the ocean right now.”

Jaskier stumbles around an unfamiliar plant with nasty-looking thorns, grimacing when one of them catches on the soft fabric of his pants and leaves a ragged tear in its wake.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “Nothing good waits for you at the top of mountains. Just poisonous plants and ridiculously steep cliffs, and… and _dragons,_ apparently.” He slaps at a large, mosquito-like insect that buzzes near his head. “And ungrateful, fish-brained arseholes!” he shouts, glaring back up the mountain. There’s no response except the soft echo of his own voice.

Jaskier huffs, turning back to the path down the mountain. He’s probably got a few hours left before sunset, and then he’ll have to find somewhere to make camp. Luckily, he’d had the wits to go back and grab supplies before storming off – Geralt’s supplies, to be precise, and sure it’s a bit petty but if Geralt hadn’t been such a colossal ass, they could share like they usually do.

“Guess he can share with his harlot, instead,” Jaskier grumbles, and tries to ignore the ache in his chest when his thoughts drift to Yennefer. Sultry, mysterious Yennefer, with her piercing eyes and enormous… power. Normally, she’d be Jaskier’s type – gorgeous, capable, a little bit dangerous. But there’s something about Yennefer that rubs Jaskier the wrong way.

“Maybe I’ll write a rhyme about this whole stupid situation,” Jaskier grumbles as he shuffles across the rough ground. _“There once was a Witcher named Geralt, who for years my ballads did exalt. Then he slept with a whore, a sorceress I abhor, and when I die here it will be all her fault.”_

* * *

By the time Geralt calms down and is ready to admit that maybe it’s possible that he was being a _bit_ of an ass, Jaskier is gone.

“Hm.” Geralt raises an eyebrow and looks around the camp where his tent and bedroll are conspicuously missing. All that’s left is a set of tracks that head back down the mountain, dug deep enough into the earth that Geralt can easily picture Jaskier stomping away.

“He’s quite fond of you.”

Yennefer’s voice is surprisingly gentle considering that not long ago she, too, had stormed away in a fit of anger. Geralt sighs, tipping his head toward her. She’s standing not far away with her arms crossed over her chest, purple eyes flashing with an indulgent sort of irritation.

“I thought _you_ were fond of me,” Geralt says mildly, looking away from Yennefer and up at the setting sun. It’s nearly nightfall and Jaskier is notoriously terrible at making a fire. The idiot is going to freeze.

“You know as well as I do that it was magic and nothing more,” Yennefer replies, resignation clear in her voice. “And neither of us got what we wanted.” She pauses. “I have a feeling you don’t even know what that is.”

“Hm.”

They stand in silence for several minutes as Geralt studies the horizon, then looks back down the hill at the trail of Jaskier’s footprints.

“Go save your idiot, then,” Yennefer says.

Geralt raises an eyebrow at her. “And you?”

“I have more questions for the dragon,” she replies, arms crossed over her chest as she looks back toward the cave. “And I can find my own way after that.”

Geralt nods. “Good luck,” he says, surprised to find that he means it.

“And you,” she says. She gives him a look that he doesn’t quite understand. “And I hope you discover what exactly it is that you want.”

* * *

Jaskier is freezing.

“I’m _choosing_ not to make a fire,” he insists out loud as he rubs his arms and shivers. “Too dangerous. There’s probably… wolves, or something.” He glares at the meagre pile of dry branches he’d managed to collect before curling up under one of the sparse trees to keep warm. “I’m not even cold.”

A violent chill quickly proves him wrong, and Jaskier grits his teeth as he pulls his knees closer to him and wraps his arms around them. The blanket he’d taken from Geralt’s pack is woefully thin against the piercing wind that’s picked up now that the sun’s slipped behind the horizon.

“Stupid,” Jaskier mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around him and rubbing his arms. Something rustles in the bushes nearby and he jumps, heart rabbit-thumping in his chest as he peers into the darkness. “Geralt?” he calls tentatively. “Is that you?” There’s no answer.

The wind howls through the branches again, tearing through the underbrush and whipping up rocks and bits of earth. “Y’know what would be useful right now,” Jaskier says to himself, “is a fucking Witcher who can see in the fucking dark.”

Not that he _needs_ Geralt or anything. He’s doing just fine on his own, even without the fire. He’s slept outside on his own plenty of times before.

Well, a few times.

Once or twice.

A branch cracks nearby and Jaskier yelps, scrambling further back against the tree. This time the sound doesn’t go away – it’s joined by other, ominous rustles, and a sound that is very distinctly a growl.

“Fuck,” he whispers. He fumbles for the dagger that’s strapped to his calf, beneath the layers of silk. Geralt gave it to him years ago, when they’d first started traveling together – something about it being “just the right size for Jaskier,” which is ridiculous because it’s barely the size of his hand and—

There’s another growl, and this time Jaskier can feel hot breath near his cheek. He whips to the side, dagger out in front of him, but it connects with nothing but thin air.

“D-don’t,” he stutters, grabbing his lute case and pulling it close with one hand while holding the dagger out with the other. The only answer is a snarl, then a low, rumbling groan. Jaskier scrambles to his feet, back against the tree trunk, wishing desperately that he could see in the dark.

Another branch cracks nearby, this time followed by the distinct sound of footsteps. “Geralt!” Jaskier breathes, chest filled with relief, but there’s no answer. “Geralt?”

An unfamiliar voice hisses out a string of words Jaskier doesn’t recognize, and before he can reply, something sharp and heavy hits his chest. He hisses in pain, swinging his dagger blindly in an arc in front of him. The back of his hand connects with something and for a second he feels a spark of pride, but then sharp teeth sink into the skin of his wrist so quickly that he hears the _crack_ of bone.

Pain sparks up Jaskier’s arm and he drops the dagger with an anguished gasp, shock following the burning ache as hot blood drips down his fingertips. Razor-sharp teeth drag through his skin and then release his arm, giving him just a second’s reprise before the pain hits him full force.

“Geralt,” he gasps, pulling his wounded hand back to his chest and dropping to his knees. “H-help…”

Another snarl. Low, angry rumbling. Fierce, excruciating pain as another set of teeth sink into his shoulder, tearing through his tunic and digging deep into his skin until they scrape his collarbone.

“Please,” Jaskier whispers, and then something’s pulling his hair, and blood is spilling down his shirt, and he can’t fucking see in the dark, and he knows nothing but pain.


	2. what we fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wakes up with a terrifying captor. Geralt tries desperately to find his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even more angst! Lots of blood and gory injuries, if you're squeamish. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! They mean a lot to me ^-^

By the time Geralt makes it to Jaskier’s attempt at a fire, it’s long past sunset. The night is black and the occasional howl of wolves fills the air, echoing through the woods that get denser the further down the mountain he goes.

Jaskier’s path is easy to follow at first. He’s not clumsy – even though Geralt will never admit it, Jaskier is a decent travel partner and a quick learner. After the original path of deep footprints stomped angrily into the dirt, Geralt actually needs to use his tracking skills to keep to Jaskier’s path.

The trek is quiet. Geralt finds himself looking back every once in a while, wondering why there’s no sound of a lute or a ridiculous song following him. Despite his initial protests, Geralt has become accustomed to the background noise, and it’s an eerie walk through the dark in silence.

It gets even eerier when he stumbles across a trail of blood that’s clearly human, and definitely Jaskier’s.

Geralt’s immediately on edge, hand going to his sword and hefting it carefully in one hand as he crouches down, touching his fingers to the sticky red path that’s been dragged across the dead leaves. There’s a small pile of firewood not far ahead, under the shelter of one of the larger trees, and glinting in the moonlight is…

“Fuck.”

It’s Jaskier’s dagger – the one Geralt gave him years ago after a close call with a werewolf that had left Jaskier with a nasty scar and Geralt with an uncomfortably distressed feeling in the pit of his stomach. Geralt picks the dagger up carefully, the same sensation re-surfacing as he inspects the dark, sticky blue substance that coats the blade. A patch of the same secretion stains the ground nearby, but it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming amounts of blood that lead away from the camp.

Geralt stands quickly, tucking the dagger into a sheath at his belt and following the tracks into the darkness.

* * *

Jaskier blinks awake slowly to a searing pain that nearly pushes him back into unconsciousness the second he opens his eyes. He groans, exhaling sharply as he swallows against the bile rising in the back of his throat. An overwhelming, ragged ache stretches from just below his left ear to the spot where his collarbone ends, and as soon as he moves, a cry of pain escapes him.

He leans to the side and throws up, then promptly passes out again.

When he eventually comes to again some time later, it's nearly sunrise. Soft gold light filters through the wooden slats of the shelter he’s being held in, highlighting the dark red that stains the sleeve of his shirt.

“G… er…” Jaskier groans, unable to push out the syllables of his friend’s name. He blinks slowly, trying to clear his blurry vision, and hisses in pain when he tries to move his arm and very quickly remembers that his wrist is broken.

“You are awake.”

The voice is thick and accented, clearly unused to the cadence of Common Speech. Jaskier’s not sure the statement is entirely true – he’s half convinced he’s dreaming, although generally only real life hurts quite this much.

“H… f…” The words gurgle through the wound in his neck and Jaskier’s vision swims. He realizes that he’s lying on his side on the ground – some sort of packed earth that’s sticky with blood and… something else. He tries not to think about it.

“I will… not kill you,” the voice says.

 _Oh, fantastic,_ Jaskier thinks, attempting to roll onto his back and failing. _Although death does sound rather appealing at the moment._

Something vaguely humanoid crouches down next to Jaskier and he gags at the stench that emanates from it – a combination of rotting flesh and a deep, sickly scent of infection and decay.

“You are… afraid,” the voice says, haltingly, with strange inflection on the wrong words.

 _Brilliant bloody observation,_ Jaskier thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to breath in the smell. _Of course I’m afraid. This is all fucking Geralt’s fucking fault, that stupid, selfish, shit-eating prick._ Another wave of pain pulls a moan from Jaskier and he drags in a ragged, wet breath. The anger at Geralt recedes and quickly turns to desperation at the touch of a cold hand on his cheek.

“Not… afraid… enough,” the voice says, and it almost sounds disappointed.

A deep, rough growl comes from behind the creature, and the sound sends a tremor through Jaskier. He can just make out a multitude of reddish eyes and a sharp flash of teeth – hundreds of them, razor sharp and crowded horrifyingly into a mouth where they shouldn’t all fit.

“Sakhaetst.” The word is rough and aching, and it scrapes the inside of Jaskier’s mind, leaving him groaning and breathless. The fanged creature moves closer. “We will not… kill him. But pain can… be worse.”

* * *

Geralt follows the trail of blood as quickly as he can – he can tell something dragged Jaskier across the ground for several miles, and then the tracks disappear. Two sets of prints accompany the trail; one walks on two legs and one on four, though neither are familiar.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters again, rubbing his face as his gaze jumps through the woods, searching for any sign of his stupid, reckless bard. He’s not sure if a human can lose that much blood and survive, but they have to be able to, because Jaskier isn’t—

Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier is fine; Geralt just has to find him and then never let the idiot out of his sight again.

He closes his eyes and exhales, focusing on the smells around him and trying to separate the sharp tang of blood from the light, cedar smell that’s distinctly Jaskier. They’ve shared enough time together that Geralt can pick it out almost immediately. Even though the blood trail stops, Jaskier’s scent doesn’t, and Geralt takes off again, foregoing stealth for quickness.

“Jaskier!” he shouts, scanning the woods for any sign of life – human or otherwise. Nothing answers him except the low hoot of an owl nearby. “Jaskier!” The name hangs on the wind for a moment, then disappears into the dark. “Fuck,” Geralt growls, pushing forward even as Jaskier’s scent begins to fade. “Stupid, fucking—shit.”

The unsettled feeling in his stomach is shifting into a sharp, stinging panic that drags the air from his lungs and makes him feel light-headed. Guilt joins it, heavy and aching, and Geralt grinds his teeth in frustration. He’s tempted to head back up the mountain – Yennefer could likely find Jaskier faster with her magic, but it would take Geralt hours, and he’s not sure Jaskier has that long.

Not with this much blood.

“Jaskier!” he shouts again, ducking out of a thicket and nearly stumbling into a thin stream that winds its way across the mountainside. A low, eerie growl stops Geralt in his tracks and he freezes when he sees the source – red eyes and a mouthful of teeth that are stained with blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

“Where is he?” Geralt snarls, though he knows he’ll get no response from this beast. It’s nearly twice the size of a gray wolf, with too many eyes and strangely shaped legs, each tipped with a single, razor-sharp claw. A scorpion-like tail flicks back and forth behind it, dark and deadly against the starless sky.

It growls at him again, then opens its mouth and charges, leaping across the river in a single bound and slamming into Geralt hard enough to knock him onto his back. He kicks at its stomach, throwing the beast off him and rolling to his feet.

“Where. Is. He?” he says again, voice low and deadly as his sword dances between them. The beast’s muzzle is stained with blood – too much blood, and Geralt’s eyes flash with anger as he steps closer and slashes at its hide. The blow connects and the beast howls, dark and furious, before whipping its tail at Geralt and catching him on the forearm.

He barely feels the wound.

* * *

Jaskier’s lost track of time. Pain is the only thing with meaning now – maybe he’s been here hours, maybe a week, maybe decades. He’s still on the ground, breath coming in sharp, pained gasps as he gags on the scent of blood and burnt flesh.

 _Geralt,_ Jaskier thinks, trying to make the word, but nothing comes from his lips but bubbled blood and a gasping moan. _Please. Help._


	3. with these hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally finds Jaskier, and is desperate to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More gory descriptions of injuries, I promise this is the last chapter like that! Thank you again to everyone who has left comments, you're all so sweet and I appreciate every single one. <3

Jaskier exists only between moments of pain.

His shoulder is the worst – sharp edges, blood spilling into the back of his throat and making it hard to breathe. Any time he tries to speak, the words dissolve into a wet gurgle. The pain pulls him in and out of consciousness, everything fading and dissolving around him and then reappearing, hard and dark and terrifying.

At one point, Geralt appears. The terror recedes into relief for just a second, and then his eyes are the wrong color and his skin ripples away and he has too many teeth. The reprieve descends back into terror and tears, and Jaskier wishes he could scream.

* * *

Geralt takes care of the wolf-beast easily, driving his sword through its skull and kicking its twitching corpse into the water. It’s easy to see the path the creature took through the forest and Geralt sprints along it, jumping over tangled roots and ducking under low branches. He calls Jaskier’s name again, throwing all caution to the wind. If something wants to attack him, it can damn well try.

The sun has risen and the mountainside is already warmed by a soft yellow light when Geralt finally sees it. A tiny hut, barely more than a ramshackle lean-to, tucked in between a large tree and a rocky bluff. The sharp tang of blood is back, and there’s a sound that’s almost a sob, and before he can think, Geralt’s across the glen and kicking down the door.

Something large and angry turns to him, hissing in a language he doesn’t recognize, and he doesn’t even look at it, just swings in its direction and feels a sharp sense of satisfaction when there’s a wet squelch and its head tumbles from its shoulders.

The relief is short-lived.

“Fuck,” Geralt whispers, dropping to his knees next to Jaskier. He’s barely sitting up, propped against the wall with his hands bound in front of him and a blank expression on his face. “Hey,” Geralt says softly, dropping his sword and reaching out to touch Jaskier’s face. “Look at me.”

Jaskier’s gaze drags slowly over to Geralt, but there’s no recognition in his vacant gaze. The soft blue of his eyes is overwhelmed by the dark of his pupils and Geralt curses, pressing his fingertips to Jaskier’s cheek.

“You’re safe now.” Geralt’s voice is rough and he tries his best to soften it, unused to being gentle or reassuring. “You—”

“Nnnn.” Jaskier jerks away from him slowly, not reacting to the dull thunk of his head hitting the wall behind him. His lips move but nothing comes out, and Geralt’s eyes drop to his neck.

It’s torn open from the edge of his jaw to the middle of his shoulder, skin maimed and missing in some places. Geralt’s heart skips when he picks out the white of Jaskier’s collarbone through the mangled skin. It’s still bleeding sluggishly in some spots, but mostly it’s messy and ragged and makes Geralt feel sick.

“Shit,” Geralt whispers, hands hovering uncertainly over the wound. He can’t touch it, but he can’t _not_ touch it either because he needs to stop the bleeding.

“Hgnnmmnn,” Jaskier tries again, lips moving without making words. The movement tugs at the wound and he gasps, tipping his head back and screwing his eyes shut in pain.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Geralt says gently, keeping his voice as soft and reassuring as possible. “You’re—it’s okay, we can…” He grits his teeth in frustration. Jaskier doesn’t heal like he does, and Geralt’s been on his own for so long that he has no idea how human bodies are supposed to knit themselves back together when they’ve been damaged.

* * *

Jaskier’s pretty sure this isn’t real.

He knows it’s Geralt – white hair, golden eyes, lips moving, but Jaskier can’t hear it because he’s made of nothing but pain. He groans, letting out another sharp, anguished breath, and blinks hard to keep himself from passing out again. Geralt isn’t disappearing this time, isn’t changing into a monster, and Jaskier can feel gentle fingertips on his cheek.

_Not real,_ he thinks, trying to pull away. _He’s not coming, he doesn’t know where I am, it’s just the monster, I’m going to die, I want to die, please, please, ple—_

“I’m so sorry.”

Soft, rumbling words break through the voice in Jaskier’s head and he slowly opens his eyes again, taking a ragged breath.

“This is going to hurt, but you have to trust me, okay?” A hand slides down his arm, touch barely there, and then there’s an arm under Jaskier’s legs and he’s shifting, moving into the air, crying out in pain.

“Shhh, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.” It’s Geralt’s voice again, and Jaskier’s starting to think that maybe this is real because the beast with too many teeth isn’t here, and nothing’s changing, and there’s a warm, steady heartbeat behind all the pain.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t stop moving until they’re at the bottom of the mountain and he’s found Roach. It takes nearly half a day and Jaskier’s heavy in his arms – he passed out not far from the cabin, delirious with pain – but Geralt’s not going to complain.

He’s never going to complain about Jaskier again.

“It’s okay, girl,” he murmurs as Roach nickers at him, nosing at Jaskier. “He’s gonna be fine. Let’s get him to town.”

It’s awkward, but he manages to get both of them on the horse, with Jaskier held between his arms, limp but breathing. Geralt shifts him so that Jaskier’s face is tucked into the crook of his neck and he can feel each soft, uneven breath that means Jaskier is alive.

“We’ll find a healer,” he murmurs, keeping both arms wrapped around Jaskier and pressing his face against his hair. “You’ll be okay. I promise.”

He’s not sure who he’s reassuring, but he keeps talking – soft, quiet words that feel so unfamiliar but necessary all the same. Roach doesn’t need his guidance to pick her way down to the flatland, and from there it’s a straight shot down the trail and back to town.

As soon as Geralt sees a farmstead, he nudges Roach off the road, stomach twisting as he sees the suspicious glare of the man out front. Even with the songs and Jaskier’s exaggerated tales of their adventures, there are still people who spit on the ground when they see Geralt coming. People who cast the sign against demons, who cross the road, who hide their children from him.

He’s never cared until now.

“Please,” Geralt says, gesturing at Jaskier, and the blood, and the way he’s barely breathing. “I need—he needs help.” The man doesn’t move and Geralt bites back the urge to strangle him. “Please, I have coin, I can pay. He’s badly injured.”

A woman, round-faced and kinder looking than the sallow man, peeks her head out the front door. “Bring him here,” she says immediately, pushing the man out of the way and whispering something to him angrily. “Inside, come, bring him in.”

Geralt dismounts as carefully as possible, keeping one hand behind Jaskier’s head and the other under his knees.

He’s so light. Humans are so fragile.

“Right here,” the woman says, moving several plates off the kitchen table and gesturing for Geralt to lie Jaskier down. When she sees the wound in his neck, she gasps. “What in the hells happened?”

“I don’t know what it was,” Geralt says, brushing Jaskier’s hair out of his eyes and staring desperately at the slow, uneven rise and fall of his chest. “I’ve never seen one before. Like a wolf, but—”

“A barghest,” the woman says, clicking her tongue and moving over to the fire where a pot of water is already boiling. “Strong, but no poison. Unbind his hands.”

Geralt stares at her for a second, then looks back at Jaskier, realizing with a start that his hands are still tied in front of him. A quick flick of his dagger easily parts the leather strap, and Geralt winces when he peels it back from the bloody mess of Jaskier’s left wrist. It’s torn apart, just like his throat, skin ripped away down to the bone.

An image of Jaskier strumming his lute and humming under his breath by the fire surfaces in Geralt’s mind, and the guilt hits him tenfold. “Can you help him?” he asks.

“I can try,” the woman says, bringing over a bowl and a damp cloth and gingerly touching it to the ragged wound on Jaskier’s neck. His breath hitches but he doesn’t wake, and Geralt’s glad for the unconsciousness that’s taken the pain away.

“Can I—what can I do?” he asks, hovering uncertainly next to the table as the woman keeps rinsing the wound, watching as the water in the bowl slowly turns darker and darker red. He wants desperately to make this better, to fix what he broke, but his hands are clumsy and far too rough.

They’re made for killing, not saving.

“Stay next to him,” the woman says gently. “In case he wakes and I need you to hold him down.”

Geralt nods, sliding Jaskier’s uninjured hand into his. _You’re going to survive this,_ he thinks desperately as he runs his thumb across Jaskier’s bloody knuckles. _You have to. I need you._


	4. tell me a story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The healer works to save Jaskier's life, and Geralt doesn't know what to do.

The wounds almost look worse once they’ve been cleaned.

The woman – Sayla – sends her husband to town to fetch the healer, and by the time she arrives, Sayla has finished washing out the dirt and dried blood. Geralt has seen hundreds of injuries in his lifetime, and has been hurt in a thousand different ways, but the way that Jaskier’s collarbone peeks through the mangled skin on his shoulder makes Geralt sick in a way he’s never felt before.

“What can I do?” he asks the healer. He’s still clutching Jaskier’s uninjured hand and staring helplessly at the shaky rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest.

“Get out of my way,” the woman says. “I need room to work.”

Geralt nearly snaps at her, even though he knows she means well. But letting go of Jaskier’s hand is the last thing he wants to do right now.

“Can I—”

“What did this?” the healer interrupts as she sets her satchel on one of the chairs.

“Barghest,” Sayla replies. The healer clicks her tongue and shakes her head, then pulls out a small kit with a wicked-looking needle and catgut thread.

“Some of it can be sutured,” she says, pressing her fingers lightly against the ragged edges of the skin on Jaskier’s shoulder. “We’ll pack the rest. Give him the valerian to keep him sleeping.”

The last statement is directed at Sayla, who nods and takes a vial of dark-looking liquid from the healer, then tips it into Jaskier’s mouth. There’s no response other than a slight movement in his throat as he swallows on reflex.

“Will he—”

“Quiet, Witcher.” The healer gives Geralt a look that would wither lesser men, but he just stares right back. She sighs. “I’m doing what I can.”

So Geralt is patient. He sits as far out of the way as he can without relinquishing his grip on Jaskier’s hand, gaze moving between Jaskier’s pale, bloody face and the needle that slips in and out of his skin.

Nearly two hours later, the healer steps back, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “He’ll live,” she says gently as Geralt quickly moves in, reaching out and carefully touching Jaskier’s hair. “It will take time, but he will wake.”

“Will he…” Geralt hesitates, staring at the bandaging on Jaskier’s neck. “His voice,” he says softly. “Is it…”

“We won’t know until he wakes,” the healer says. She hands Geralt another vial of valerian. “Keep him asleep as long as you can,” she says. “I set the bone in the wrist, but it will take time to heal. Once he’s lucid, send for me and I’ll come back to change the bandages.”

Geralt nods, wishing he didn’t feel like he was drowning. “Here,” he says quietly, reaching for the coinpurse on his belt. “Whatever you need.”

* * *

Sayla lets them stay and Geralt’s too tired to argue. He can’t get Jaskier back on the horse anyway – not with the bandages and his splinted wrist.

“We can stay in the barn,” Geralt says, keeping his eyes on Jaskier’s bruised face. “I can pay you.”

“Nonsense,” Sayla says, pushing away Geralt’s coinpurse. “We’ve got an extra room – our Theodore went off and married and we haven’t filled the space yet. You’re welcome to it.”

The room is small and cramped, and there’s nothing but a dresser and a bed that’s barely big enough for Jaskier. Geralt lies him down gently, tucking his injured arm across his stomach. Sayla brings him another bowl of water and Geralt uses the rough cloth to gently clean the blood from the rest of Jaskier’s face and chest. Then he tugs the threadbare blanket up and, after a moment, adds his cloak for good measure.

“I’m sorry.” The words are barely audible as Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, reaching up and touching Jaskier’s hair. He combs his fingers through it, exhaling sharply and closing his eyes as he thinks back to all the times Jaskier’s done the same for him.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, shaking his head. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind Jaskier’s ear. “I was so angry – not at you, at Yenn, and the magic, and… and you were there, and it was easy to…” He rubs his face. “Fuck.”

 _Use your words._ He can hear Jaskier’s voice in his head, see the grin that quirks the corner of his mouth whenever he’s teasing. He says it all the time – whenever he asks about Geralt’s adventures, and Geralt is sparse with his answers. _Use your words, darling, or I’m going to have to make it all up._

“You make it up anyway,” Geralt grumbles, sighing and staring at the bandage on Jaskier’s neck. “Next time you ask…” He hesitates. “I’ll tell you. I promise. Anything you want.”

There’s no response from Jaskier, and suddenly Geralt wants nothing more than to hear his voice. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is the deep, ragged edges of the wound in Jaskier’s neck, and hear the pained gasp where Jaskier’s words should have been.

The terrifying, quiet voice in his head that he’s been trying so hard to ignore whispers, _he’ll never sing again and it’s all your fault._

“You will,” Geralt says out loud. “You’ll get better and then you’ll sing your ridiculous songs and I will _never_ complain about it again.” He slides his hand down until his fingers are twined with Jaskier’s, brushing his thumb along his knuckles. “I like your voice,” he says softly. “I like it when you sing to me.”

Geralt lets out a shaky breath, taking Jaskier’s hand in both of his. The room is far too quiet and Geralt hates it. He’d been alone for so long that at first, Jaskier had grated on him. 

_I want no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me._

But Jaskier had persisted, and was _there,_ always present, always talking and singing and filling up the room with his smile and song and laughter. At first Geralt had wanted nothing more than to get away from it, but after they’d parted, the first time, it had been… unsettling. The quiet wasn’t comforting anymore, and for the first time in his life, Geralt hadn’t wanted to be alone.

“I was wrong,” he says softly, bringing Jaskier’s hand to his lips and kissing his fingers. “I do need you.” He shifts closer on the bed, tucking one leg under his knee. “You make my life…”

He trails off, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling as he curses himself. Even now, with Jaskier nearly dead, he _still_ can’t say the things he should. His chest is tight with all the sentiment that the stories say he shouldn’t have; a confusing tangle of emotions that only Jaskier can weave in him like the music he plucks from his lute.

“Happy,” Geralt whispers finally, leaning down and kissing Jaskier’s forehead. “You make me feel happy.”

Then he settles in, leg resting against Jaskier’s thigh, fingers twined together, and takes a deep breath. “I have a story for you,” he says, “about a ridiculous bard who never knew how to give up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this is sappy as hell, I apologize for nothing 💕


	5. is this the real life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier drifts in and out of dreams, and Geralt doesn't leave his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sappy fluff incoming!

Jaskier is fairly certain he isn’t dead.

To be fair, he’s never been dead before, so he doesn’t have much to compare it to, but the tiny, intermittent sparks of pain that plague him don’t seem like they belong in the afterlife. He can’t see anything, and when he tries to move, it’s disorienting, like he doesn’t really have a body. There’s no sense of up or down, and all he can hear is a slow, rhythmic thump that he eventually realizes is his own heartbeat.

Well then. He can’t be dead if his heart is beating, so that settles it. Although, if he has a heartbeat, he should have a body, which doesn’t appear to be the case.

Jaskier starts to drift. He’s not sure exactly what’s happening, but it feels a little like floating. Swimming, maybe. Carried along by something warm and gentle that pulls him in and out of his sense of self. Time isn’t real. He’s not sure if he’s been here – wherever here is – for hours, or days, or perhaps years.

“…because you’re an idiot…”

A familiar voice floats through the darkness around him. It’s rough and low, and it makes Jaskier feel safe, but he has no idea who it belongs to.

“…told you not to follow me, but you never listen…”

The voice wavers and it’s like Jaskier’s listening through a door in a rainstorm, trying desperately to hear the words through the strange thickness surrounding him. He knows the voice – it’s someone important, but Jaskier can’t remember who. He’s not sure who _he_ is, never mind some disembodied voice, but there are tiny pieces that he’s slowly starting to pull together.

White hair.

Gold eyes.

Rough, scarred hands.

“…scared the shit out of me. I yelled at you because I was scared, not because I was angry, but you make it hard to tell the difference.”

Each memory that makes its way through Jaskier is interwoven with a sharp thread of pain. The sparks come faster, and the harder he concentrates on the voice, the worse it becomes.

“Jaskier.”

He _knows,_ the name is there, just out of reach, and Jaskier pushes harder, grabs at the pain and forces himself into it because he needs this.

“Jaskier, stop, you’re hurting yourself.”

_Can’t stop,_ he thinks, and if he wasn’t convinced he was alive before he sure is now because there’s no _way_ being dead could possibly hurt this much.

“…fucking idiot, you’re going to tear your stitches.” The voice is sharp, and there’s a pressure over the pain, something gentle but insistent. “You have to hold still, Jaskier. You’re making it worse.”

_Making what worse?_

“Shhh,” the voice murmurs as something soft and warm floods through him and pushes the pain away. “You’re safe.”

_Geralt,_ Jaskier thinks, before he slips beneath the surface and sleeps again.

* * *

Geralt sighs, setting the empty vial of valerian on the side table and shifting his hand from where he’d been holding Jaskier’s uninjured shoulder. He runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair instead – damp and sweaty, and dirty after four days without a bath. Stubble is starting to darken the edges of Jaskier’s jaw, and Geralt’s first thought is how horrified Jaskier would be to see himself so disheveled.

_How in the world am I supposed to maintain my reputation if I look like... well, you?_

Jaskier’s voice fills Geralt’s head, and he supposes that it’s a side effect of spending so much time together that he knows exactly how the conversation would go. He would roll his eyes, and Jaskier would smack his arm and then immediately dive into a rant about Geralt’s hair, and how it would be lovely if he would just let Jaskier brush it and perhaps braid it, and if he would wear something other than black once in a while it would do wonders for his complexion...

Geralt’s not sure what Jaskier would say after that, because by this point, he’s usually stopped listening. Not that he’s not paying attention to Jaskier, he just tunes out the words and hears nothing but the soft cadence of Jaskier’s voice.

“You’d better wake up soon,” Geralt grumbles. “Preferably lucid and _not_ trying to hurt yourself.”

He yawns, rubbing his face and tipping his head back to look out the window. It’s early morning, and a soft, pink light spills across the fields around the farmhouse. Geralt rolls his shoulders, wincing at the ache that creeps up his neck from spending the last three nights sleeping in a chair.

There’s a soft knock at the door and Sayla peeks her head in again. “Everything all right?”

“Mm.” Geralt rubs his thumb across Jaskier’s cheek. “Seemed to be waking, but he had a fit again. Don’t think he tore anything.” 

Sayla moves into the room, carrying a bowl of warm water that she hands to Geralt. He takes it, nodding his thanks and then wetting the cloth and starting to dab at the sweat on Jaskier’s forehead.

“That’s the last of the valerian,” Sayla says, picking up the empty vial and tucking it into her skirt pocket. “Next time he’ll wake for good.”

Geralt nods. Each dose of the drug has kept Jaskier under for about six hours, and every time he’s started to come out of it, he’s struggled and spasmed and nearly re-injured himself.

“Rohin and I are heading into town for the market,” Sayla says. “We can call for Lily to come change the bandages and check the sutures.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says softly, and Sayla squeezes his shoulder gently before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. 

* * *

This time when Jaskier wakes, he has a body to go along with his heartbeat. He opens his eyes to an unfamiliar room with dull ache in his shoulder, and a hand in his, fingers laced together. He blinks a few times, staring at the ceiling before attempting to look around. The small movement tugs at something in the side of his neck and he hisses in pain.

“Jaskier?”

The voice is low and filled with concern and is quickly followed by gentle fingertips on Jaskier’s cheek. Geralt’s face fills his field of vision, twisted into an expression that Jaskier’s never seen before.

“Stay still,” Geralt says, shifting until he’s sitting on the bed next to Jaskier. “The healer said the sutures are holding and you’re healing up, but you shouldn’t move too quickly.”

“W…” Jaskier makes a sound that’s not quite a word, gaze moving slowly across Geralt’s face. He looks dirty and exhausted – nothing out of the ordinary – but underneath all that he looks… afraid. Which is ridiculous, because Geralt is afraid of exactly nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt says softly, and when he brings their joined hands up to his lips and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles, Jaskier realizes he’s not actually awake. Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, does not _kiss_ Jaskier’s hands. He also has never apologized to Jaskier, so either Jaskier is still dreaming, or this is some sort of hallucination brought on by too little sleep or too much drink. Or both.

He tries to tell dream-Geralt this, but when he opens his mouth, nothing happens.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, running a hand over his face. Jaskier frowns at him. “Fucking hell.”

_Oh,_ Jaskier thinks as his brain finally catches up to the pain in his shoulder and arm. _This isn’t real._

Disappointment claws at him, digging its fingers into the hope he’d been holding onto and tearing it away. This isn’t Geralt – it’s the monster, and Jaskier’s lost in the mountains, bleeding to death while demon feeds off of his fear.

Jaskier exhales shakily, gritting his teeth and attempting to pull his wrist out of monster-Geralt’s grip. The hand around his arm tightens and he whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to figure out how to make the illusion go away. It’s only a matter of time before it’ll start to shift – skin melting, eyes turning red, fingers digging into Jaskier’s wounds until he tries to scream, but nothing will come out and instead he’ll choke on blood and inch closer and closer to death.

Part of him hopes it’s soon.

“Jaskier.” It sounds so much like Geralt but Jaskier _knows_ because it’s been hours and every single time he starts to hope, he’s ripped from the dream and back to the pain. “Jaskier, look at me. It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

“Nnnn.” Jaskier tries to shake his head but it _hurts,_ and he can’t help the tears that pool in the corners of his eyes and start to slip down his cheeks.

“This is real.”

_It’s not. It can’t be._

Then Geralt’s hand is touching his face, thumb wiping the tears from his cheeks, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “Jaskier,” Geralt says again – _no, it’s not Geralt,_ but Jaskier wants it to be so, so badly. “I’m trying not to hurt you, but if you keep moving, you’re going to open the wound again.”

Jaskier shudders, slowly opening his eyes as he realizes that there’s a bandage across his neck and shoulder, and another around his wrist, and everything doesn’t hurt quite as much as it should.

“There you are,” Geralt says, continuing to run his thumb across Jaskier’s temple. “I know you’re confused but I promise you’re safe.”

Jaskier takes a shaky breath, and another, and Geralt’s still Geralt.

“We met in Posada,” Geralt says, shifting closer to Jaskier and slowly easing the tight grip on his wrist. “Remember? You followed me around, almost died, and then wrote that stupid godsdamned song that I can never get out of my head.” He combs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair again and it feels so _good,_ so safe and comforting.

Jaskier stops struggling – half because it hurts like hell, and half because this Geralt feels very, very different than the others. His eyes are softer. There are lines on his face that weren’t there before, and a crease in his forehead, and dark circles under his eyes, and his fingers never stop moving in Jaskier’s hair.

Geralt shifts his grip from Jaskier’s wrist to his hand and runs his thumb across Jaskier’s palm as he starts to hum. It’s horribly off-key – rough and unmelodic – but the tune is instantly familiar.

_Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty…_

There’s no way the monster could possibly know where they’d met, or how they’d been captured, and it certainly wouldn’t know the tune of the song that’s been stuck in Jaskier’s head since he wrote it.

“There you go,” Geralt says, and to Jaskier’s surprise, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. The gentle, intimate gesture feels at once wildly unfamiliar, and like the only thing that’s ever felt like home. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and lets himself cry as he finally realizes that this is real, Geralt’s here, and he’s going to be okay.


	6. my hands are guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's awake and Geralt tries to make amends.

Jaskier cries for a long time, face pressed against Geralt’s shoulder, uninjured hand gripping the front of his shirt. Geralt tries his best to be comforting, continuing to hum and run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Relief floods through him like an exhale after a deep breath, and he holds Jaskier as close as he possibly can without hurting him.

Eventually Jaskier lets out a shaky sigh and pulls away, wincing as Geralt helps him lie back down again. His eyes are clear now, and a bit of color is coming back to his cheeks.

“You’ve been asleep for a few days,” Geralt says gently. He slips his hand back into Jaskier’s without thinking. “Are you hungry?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond right away. His fingers curl weakly around Geralt’s and he searches Geralt’s face, staring at him like he’s going to disappear.

“I’m real,” Geralt reassures him again. The guilt that’s been sitting in his chest since he shouted at Jaskier resurfaces full force, and he squeezes Jaskier’s hand. 

Jaskier frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, but only a quiet wheeze comes out. 

“Don’t try to talk,” Geralt says. Panic is starting to weave itself alongside the guilt, and he grinds his teeth in frustration. _It’s okay,_ he thinks. _It’s temporary, once the wound heals, he’ll be all right._

Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand and slowly brings his fingers up to the bandage on his neck.

“Something bit you,” Geralt says, pulling Jaskier’s hand gently away from the bandage. “I killed it.”

The confusion on Jaskier’s face turns to relief, but there’s still a wariness behind his normally bright eyes. Geralt isn’t sure if it’s directed at him or the situation in general, but if it’s him, he deserves it.

“I’m sorry,” he says before he can change his mind and fuck things up again. “What I said was cruel, and I hurt you.” Jaskier stares at him. “I was angry,” Geralt continues, and he feels a hot flush of shame creeping up the back of his neck that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. “I was angry, and you were there, and I didn’t mean any of it, and this is my fault.”

The words hang in the air between them and Geralt looks away, staring down at his hand on Jaskier’s wrist. Jaskier’s pulse thrums under Geralt’s fingertips, like a hummingbird, beautiful and bright and easily broken.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

Jaskier turns his hand, pressing their palms together, and nudges Geralt until he looks up. There are fresh tears on Jaskier’s cheeks and Geralt makes a frustrated sound, heart aching as he reaches out to brush them away with his thumb.

Jaskier tips his head the tiniest bit, pressing his face into Geralt’s palm. Then he tugs on Geralt’s other hand and it takes a second for Geralt to realize that Jaskier tracing letters on the palm of his hand.

_F… o… r…._

_Forgive._ Jaskier spells the word with shaky fingers, then squeezes Geralt’s hand as if to emphasize his point.

Geralt swallows around the lump that’s quickly growing in his throat and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t,” he insists. “I don’t deserve it.”

For that, he receives a gentle slap on the back of his hand – a tiny admonishment that’s reflected in the mildly irritated expression on Jaskier’s face. He starts to write more letters on Geralt’s palm – _saved me._

“I put you in danger in the first place,” Geralt says. Jaskier huffs, tapping his fingers against Geralt’s palm impatiently.

_No,_ he spells, slowly and carefully. _Not fault._

Geralt doesn’t agree, but he also doesn’t want to argue with Jaskier, who already looks exhausted again. Instead he squeezes Jaskier’s hand and murmurs a quiet, “I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

Jaskier sighs, then frowns, letting go of Geralt’s hand and touching his chin. His fingers brush over stubble and he makes a horrified face. Geralt laughs.

“I told you, you’ve been asleep for a while.”

Jaskier quickly returns his fingertips to Geralt’s palm and spells the word _bath._

* * *

When Geralt leaves to bring the wooden tub into the bedroom, Jaskier feels a brief flash of panic. But Geralt returns quickly, and then starts to bring in water by the bucketful. Every time he leaves the room, he gives Jaskier a reassuring look, but Jaskier can see something else etched into the lines of his face.

Guilt.

An angry part of Jaskier thinks, _Good. He should feel guilty._ There’s hurt and fear behind those thoughts, combined with the ache in his neck and his wrist. Not being able to talk is… well, Jaskier would like to say disconcerting, but terrifying is probably a better description. If he can’t talk, he can’t sing, can’t make music anymore, can’t—

“Bath is ready.” Geralt appears, interrupting Jaskier’s frantic train of thought. His contrite expression melts the anger, and all Jaskier can feel is relief. “Can you stand?”

Geralt holds Jaskier’s elbow, helping him slowly to sit up on the edge of the bed. A wave of dizziness washes over Jaskier and he groans, bringing his good hand to his forehead. He feels too light – empty, not quite real.

“Can I lift you?” Geralt asks. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” Jaskier nods miserably, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself for the inevitable pain. It never comes, though – Geralt’s movements are slow and deliberate, and he gently shifts Jaskier until he’s leaning against Geralt’s broad chest with his injured hand tucked over his stomach.

When Geralt lowers him into the water, Jaskier lets out a soft, contented sigh. “Careful,” Geralt says, keeping one hand on Jaskier’s back as he slides down into the water. “You have to sit up. Can’t get the bandages wet.”

Jaskier tries, but the pull of the heat mixed with the woozy feeling from earlier drags him down as if it’s calling him to sleep. “Damnit, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles. He sighs, keeping one hand under Jaskier’s arm to support him and using the other to unbutton his shirt. “I’m coming in with you, so you don’t drown.”

Jaskier’s not sure if he wants to protest or not, but he doesn’t end up getting much of a say in the matter. Geralt manages to get down to his smalls without letting Jaskier slip into the water, and then he’s stepping in behind Jaskier, slowly sinking down until Jaskier is settled between his legs and leaning back against his chest.

“Better?” The words rumble through Geralt as he wraps a careful arm around Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier manages a tiny nod as he relaxes against Geralt, already exhausted despite having done exactly nothing since waking up. “Good. Try to stay awake if you can.”

Jaskier’s not sure he can promise that. He focuses on the way the tension bleeds out of his legs and back; the slow, steady thump of Geralt’s heartbeat; the lavender scent of the soap sitting next to the tub.

When Geralt’s fingers brush against Jaskier’s temple, he tenses for a second, then sighs and relaxes into the touch. Geralt doesn’t say anything, just grabs a small cup from the side of the tub, filling it with water and using it to wet Jaskier’s hair.

Geralt works in silence – washing and rinsing Jaskier’s hair, then gently combing out the tangles with deft fingers. If Jaskier wasn’t so exhausted, he might have found it sensual, but instead it just feels comforting. Safe.

Jaskier must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he opens his eyes next, he’s back in the bed. The linens smell fresh, and he’s dressed in nothing but his smallclothes and a clean, too-large shirt that obviously belongs to Geralt.

“Here.” Geralt crouches down next to the bed and holds out a cup of something murky and foul-smelling. Jaskier makes a face and Geralt grunts in amusement. “It’s for the pain,” he says. He holds it up to Jaskier’s lips and keeps it steady while Jaskier reluctantly drinks it all down. Whatever is in it floods through his body immediately, leaving everything pleasantly numb.

“Better?”

Jaskier nods, slumping back against the pillows. He reaches out for Geralt’s hand and writes a shaky _thank you_ into his palm. Geralt’s face twists with guilt again and Jaskier flicks his thumb. _Stop it._

“You should go back to sleep,” Geralt says gently, moving to stand. “I need to go take care of some things.”

The flood of panic from before resurfaces, even through the sedating effects of the herbs, and Jaskier shakes his head, refusing to let go of Geralt’s fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt moves from his crouch to sit on the edge of the bed, and Jaskier writes one more word on the palm of his hand.

_Stay._


	7. a new kind of voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has something important to do. Jaskier still can't talk and needs a new way to communicate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one of my Deaf friends who played the Witcher 3 told me that one of the signs (Axii) used ASL fingerspelling to make the sign - and [she was right](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gezbVuMFOdo)! So because I'm a sign language interpreter and it's a huge part of my life, I'm playing with canon and making it a Thing. 
> 
> Also, I gave Jaskier a case for his lute because it's absolutely ridiculous that he would just carry around such an important instrument with no protection from the wind/rain/snow/etc. He loves that damn thing too much to not keep it safe.

_Stay._

Geralt swallows, trying not to tremble at the sensation of Jaskier’s fingertips on his palm, and nods slowly, settling down next to him on the bed. He doesn’t deserve this. He’d been half-expecting Jaskier to wake up and tell him to leave, and if he had, Geralt would have gone.

All he does it hurt people, and this is exactly why he needs nobody. Or _wants_ to need nobody, because as hard as he’s tried to convince himself that he doesn’t want Jaskier around, he knows it’s a lie.

He needs Jaskier, and he hates himself for it.

“Go to sleep,” he says softly, letting Jaskier’s fingers slide between his. “You’re safe.”

Jaskier, nods, squeezing Geralt’s hand weakly and closing his eyes. It only takes a few seconds for his shaky breaths to even out as he slips back into sleep. The tight lines of pain on his face relax and Geralt lets go of his hand, running his fingers across Jaskier’s cheek.

He sits with Jaskier for a long time, watching the rise and fall of his chest until he’s convinced that Jaskier is truly asleep and isn’t in any pain. Then Geralt stands, kissing Jaskier’s forehead before turning and heading for the door.

He needs to go back up the mountain.

* * *

This time, he takes Roach. They find a different path, and although it would be impassable for a regular horse, Roach has put up with worse and she seems to understand the importance of the trip. It’s easy to find the hut where Jaskier was held, and as soon as it comes into view, Geralt digs his nails into his palms so hard they almost start to bleed.

The monster is still there. Well, part of it, anyway. Now that Geralt has a chance to see it in the daylight, he realizes it’s a nightwalker. Its head, which has rolled a bit down the hill, is mostly teeth and horns, and its claws are nearly as long as Geralt’s forearm.

He burns down the shack with the body inside it.

After that he heads back to the river where the remains of the barghest are strewn about the riverbank. He burns that, too, watching the smoking remains until there’s nothing left but ash.

“C’mon, Roach,” he murmurs once it’s done. Roach nickers and headbutts him, then follows him back through the trees and along the trail of blood until they get to the spot where Jaskier was attacked. When Geralt sees Jaskier’s pack and lute case still sitting against the tree, he breathes a sigh of relief.

At least he can do this one thing right.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up to an empty room and gnawing hunger sitting deep in his belly. He groans, carefully rubbing his face with his good hand. He’s pleased to find smooth skin again, although the idea of Geralt shaving him while he’s asleep is… strange. Not unpleasant, just odd.

He slowly pushes himself up, wincing at the pain in his ribs. When he tugs up his shirt – Geralt’s shirt – he’s greeted with a ladder of purple and green bruises up and down his ribs. It hurts to breathe too deeply, but the ache from yesterday is dulled somewhat.

_Now,_ he thinks, _to figure out where I am._ He’s used to talking to himself out loud – Geralt always complains about it, but Jaskier’s afraid to try to use his voice again. If he doesn’t try to speak, he reasons, it doesn’t mean he _can’t._ He’s just choosing not to. Which is something entirely different.

He pushes aside the lingering uneasiness and uses his good hand to push himself up, wobbling for a second before taking a small step. It’s unsteady, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out. He looks around the room until he finds a pair of loose breeches that he’s able to shimmy into, then slowly, carefully heads towards the door.

It opens into a small hallway, which leads to a comfortable-looking room with three chairs set around a fireplace. A woman is sitting in one of them, stirring something in a pot over the fire, and she turns and smiles at Jaskier when he enters the room.

“You’re looking much better,” she says, moving over to him and taking his arm to help guide him to a chair. “Come, sit – you must be starving. I’ve got the stew going, should be ready soon. Some bread while you wait?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer right away. Instead he looks around the room – they’re in some sort of farmhouse with a large window that opens onto a farmer’s field. The sun is nearly set, pulling streaks of blue and purple across the sky.

“I’m Sayla,” the woman says, holding out a cup of water. Jaskier takes it with a shaky hand, still not quite sure if this is a dream. The fact that Geralt isn’t here is unsettling, and he frowns at the woman, trying to figure out how to ask her where he went.

“Your Witcher friend went off to find something for you,” Sayla says as if reading Jaskier’s mind. “He left last night; should be back any time. Drink up, the stew will be ready soon.”

The uneasy sensation in Jaskier’s stomach intensifies – the woman seems kind, but Jaskier can’t trust her. Geralt’s not here, and without him, Jaskier isn’t safe. He shakes his head, holding the cup back out to Sayla, and she sighs.

“Love, you haven’t eaten in nearly four days,” Sayla says gently. “Promise I ain’t tryin’ to poison you. It’s just plain old rabbit stew, swear on my mother.”

Jaskier can’t help the quiet, confused sound that escapes him. His breath catches in his throat and suddenly his chest feels tight, and his hand is trembling so hard that he drops the cup. It hits the floor with a dull _thud,_ and he watches with wide eyes as the water trickles across the wooden floor.

“Are you all right?” Sayla asks, tipping her head down, and she’s too close now, close enough to hurt him, to change and laugh and tear him apart. He tries to scramble backward and suddenly the chair tips under him, and he hits the ground with a sharp gasp. “I don’t—”

Sayla’s anxious words are interrupted by the front door opening, and then Geralt is there, face drawn in a frown with Jaskier’s lute case held in one hand.

“Jaskier,” he says softly, setting the case down and moving to kneel on the floor next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“N…” Jaskier swallows back the words and shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow and shifting closer to Geralt. He grabs Geralt’s hand, quickly writing the word _safe?_ in his palm.

“Yes,” Geralt says, squeezing Jaskier’s hand. “Sayla helped bandage you up let us stay here. She won’t hurt you.”

Geralt’s low, soft voice calms the racing of Jaskier’s heart somewhat, and the panic starts to feel like something closer to embarrassment. Heat creeps up the back of his neck, and he stares at their joined hands instead of looking up at Sayla.

Without thinking, Jaskier brings his hand to his chest and makes the sign for _sorry._ He hasn’t used the signs in years – not since his courses at Oxenfurt when he and his best mate had learned the language purely as a means to talk about other students behind their backs.

“He says he’s sorry,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier’s elbow and helping him to his feet. Jaskier frowns, looking up at Geralt, who ignores his curious gaze. 

“It’s all right, dear,” Sayla says, picking up the spilled cup and dabbing at the water with a cloth. “You’ve been through a lot; I take no offense.” She gives him a gentle smile, then gestures back to the room. “Why don’t you go rest and I’ll bring you something to eat when it’s ready?”

* * *

As soon as they’re back in the bedroom, Geralt helps Jaskier sit on the bed, then crouches down in front of him and runs his hands down Jaskier’s arms. The touch makes Jaskier shiver.

“How are you feeling?” Geralt asks, tipping his head to the side in that ridiculously endearing way that makes him look like an actual wolf. “Do you need something for the pain?”

Jaskier shakes his head, careful not to disturb the bandage on his shoulder. _Better._ He raises an eyebrow when Geralt nods at the sign, clearly understanding him. _How do you know the signs?_

Geralt shrugs. “We learned more than just hunting and fighting at Kaer Morhen,” he says simply. “Some of the Witcher signs use the language.” He moves his hand and Jaskier raises an eyebrow as his fingers spell the word _Axii._ There isn’t much magic behind it, but Jaskier feels a small wave of calm wash over him and he closes his eyes, exhaling in relief.

“I found your lute,” Geralt says after a moment. He gestures to the case that’s leaning against the wall.

_You went back?_ Jaskier’s eyes widen when Geralt nods. _Why?_

“It’s important to you.” Geralt looks down at the ground and Jaskier is astonished by the red flush that creeps across Geralt’s cheeks. “And I… needed to make sure the monster was taken care of.”

A shudder runs down Jaskier’s spine as a memory of of blood and claws and teeth flashes through his mind. _Gone?_ he asks.

Geralt nods and rubs his thumb absently across Jaskier’s knee. “I burned it. It was a nightwalker – they feed off fear. That’s why it… tortured you.” 

_It looked like you,_ Jaskier says.

“I figured.” Geralt sighs and rubs his face. “I’m sorry.” Jaskier moves to interrupt him but he shakes his head. “I know you said you forgive me, but I don’t… I don’t want you to.” Jaskier frowns. “Not yet. I want—I need to earn it.” He keeps his gaze on Jaskier’s knees, red still clinging to his cheeks. “I thought you were going to die, and the last thing I’d said to you was that I didn’t need you.”

Part of Jaskier flinches, recalling the angry words and the wild look in Geralt’s eyes. But Geralt’s here, now – he carried Jaskier to safety, sat with him while he healed, went back up the mountain to get his lute just because it’s important to him.

“I do…” Geralt hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “I do need you. And this—” he gestures at the bandage on Jaskier’s throat. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”


	8. you are enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's filled with guilt and Jaskier is trying not to be angry, but when they leave Sayla's farm, all the feelings they've been trying to ignore come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated this in a while but I was getting all my fics done for Geraskier week! Now we're back on track with some more angst and a little bit of fluff. Enjoy! ^-^

They stay with Sayla for a week before Jaskier feels well enough to travel.

_Stop looking at me like that,_ Jaskier signs one-handed as Geralt helps him tug a clean shirt over his head and around his injured wrist.

Geralt grunts in response, slipping the sling around Jaskier’s shoulder and helping him shift his arm into it. The healer stopped by yesterday to change the bandages again and show Geralt how to do it on his own. Both wounds are still ugly and red, but the ragged edges are sutured now, and Jaskier is able to move his fingers a little.

Only a little, though. Geralt’s stomach twists with guilt as he stares at Jaskier’s wrist and thinks of him never being able to play again.

Jaskier huffs and kicks Geralt in the shin. _Stop it,_ he signs again. He adds a sign that Geralt doesn’t recognize but refuses to explain it when Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“I need to get Roach saddled up,” Geralt says roughly. “Can you—”

_I’m fine._ Jaskier pushes himself to his feet and spreads his good arm out in a _ta-da_ gesture. _I promise._

Geralt doesn’t believe it. There’s a half-smile on Jaskier’s face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are dark and tired. He’d woken up in the middle of the night again, shoving at Geralt’s chest and trying to scream, and Geralt had nearly cried as he’d held Jaskier close and shushed him back to sleep.

Jaskier hadn’t said anything in the morning when he’d woken up in Geralt’s arms. Geralt’s not sure if he’s pretending or if he truly doesn’t remember the dream, but Geralt’s not going to bring it up.

“Sayla made breakfast,” he says quietly, gesturing down the hallway. “Something soft, for…” He tries not to look at Jaskier’s throat.

Jaskier sighs, reaching out and squeezing Geralt’s hand before limping past him into toward the kitchen.

* * *

_Fine,_ Jaskier thinks as he heads down the hallway. _I’m fine. It’s fine. Fine, fine, fine._ Maybe if he thinks it often enough, it’ll become true, because right now he’s the farthest fucking thing from fine and he doesn’t know how long he can hold it together.

“Good morning, love,” Sayla says when she sees him, gesturing for him to join her at the table. He settles down awkwardly, nodding in thanks when she hands him a cup of tea. “Sleep all right?”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, just grips the cup tightly and stares at the way his knuckles go white. He remembers dreaming – blood and teeth and things that hurt. In the dream he had screamed; had called out Geralt’s name over and over, begging for help that never came.

He’d woken to Geralt, sitting in the chair next to the bed, holding his shoulder and saying over and over, “It’s all right, you’re okay, you’re safe.” Anger had burned through the fear and everything had been white-hot, Jaskier’s fists pounding against Geralt’s chest, gasping around a sound he couldn’t make, terrified and trembling.

Waking up later in Geralt’s arms had been both suffocating and a relief.

“Hungry?” Sayla asks. She holds out a bowl of watery porridge and Jaskier does his best to not make a face. “I know it isn’t much,” she says, setting the bowl on the table next to him. “The healer said you can’t eat hard foods, though.”

_I know,_ Jaskier thinks bitterly. He takes a sip of the tea and winces when he has to swallow. It doesn’t burn like the first time, but it still hurts.

Everything hurts.

He absently flexes his fingers of his injured hand and tries not to think about how it had looked yesterday when the healer had peeled back the bandages and re-tightened the splint.

“You’ll play again,” she’d reassured him when she’d seen him looking at his lute case in the corner of the room. “Just give it time.” 

The front door scrapes open and the memory fades as Geralt steps into the house. Jaskier can’t look up at him because he knows that all he’ll see is the lines of guilt and regret that have taken up permanent residence on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to deal with that right now. He knows, logically, that none of this is Geralt’s fault, but he’s still bitter. 

_This wouldn’t have happened if you’d been there,_ the angry part of him thinks. _I would have been safe with you, but you pushed me away._

“Ready?” Geralt asks. Jaskier hates the uncertainty in his voice. He’s guilty and Jaskier’s terrified, and nothing can make either of them feel better.

* * *

Geralt isn’t surprised when Jaskier refuses to ride on Roach. He’s stubborn – although not usually _this_ stubborn – so Geralt doesn’t argue for the first hour or so. Instead he walks at Jaskier’s pace, meandering along the road underneath the soft blue sky. Roach doesn’t seem to mind, stopping every once in a while to nibble on flowers or patches of grass.

When they finally reach the crossroads at the edge of the city, Jaskier stops.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, reaching out to touch Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier flinches and takes a small step away from him, and a piece of Geralt’s heart splinters.

_What are we doing?_ Jaskier asks. He doesn’t look at Geralt, just keeps his gaze on the rows of houses that mark the edge of the city. There’s a slump to his shoulders that seems almost resigned. He signs something else that Geralt doesn’t catch, huffing at him when he doesn’t get a response.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt says.

Jaskier reaches out and grabs Geralt’s arm, then turns his hand up and writes _can’t help_ across his palm.

“I can’t help?” Geralt says, frowning. Jaskier shakes his head, sighing in exasperation. “You can’t help?” Jaskier nods and Geralt studies him for a minute. “You mean you can’t help me?” Another nod. “I don’t—”

_Useless,_ Jaskier writes, and the letters are almost too quick for Geralt to keep up. _Should go._ Before he can keep going, Geralt grabs his hand and holds it tightly.

“Stop,” he says, shaking his head. Jaskier looks away from him, staring down at the dirt, and Geralt can see tears in the corners of his eyes. “You’re not useless.” Jaskier huffs and nods at his broken wrist. “I don’t want you to go.”

Jaskier’s jaw tightens.

_If life could give me one blessing…_

“I didn’t mean it,” Geralt says, but he knows the words aren’t enough. He’s worried that nothing will ever be enough to fix the damage he’s done. “Come here,” he says, pulling Jaskier a little closer and gesturing to Roach. “You’re tired. Let her carry you.”

Jaskier looks like he’s going to argue, but Roach intervenes, swinging her head over and butting Jaskier’s chest. He exhales quietly – a hollow imitation of a laugh – then tugs his wrist carefully out of Geralt’s grasp and brings his hand up to stroke Roach’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Jaskier sighs, pressing his forehead to Roach’s and then looking over at Geralt. _Where are we going?_

Geralt hesitates. “I want… to help.” He gestures vaguely to the bandage across Jaskier’s neck. “To fix things.” The words stick in his throat and he wishes it wasn’t so fucking hard to say what he means. “I don’t mean—not fix. You’re not broken, or useless. I don’t want you to stay because you’re useful.”

Jaskier frowns at him and Geralt sighs, tipping his head to the sky and running both hands over his face.

“You don’t have to be useful,” he says after a moment. “You’re enough. Just you.”

Something hopeful flickers across Jaskier’s face, and it lights a spark in Geralt. He reaches out again, carefully this time, and when Jaskier takes his hand, he exhales in relief.

* * *

Jaskier spends most of the day riding Roach. Despite his insistence on walking for the first while, he’s grateful to be off his feet. Even after a week of lying about he’s still exhausted, and when Geralt settles behind him in the saddle and murmurs, “Go to sleep,” in Jaskier’s ear, he leans back against Geralt’s chest and does just that.

Thankfully he doesn’t dream.

When he wakes again, the sun is beginning to set, spilling golden light across the fields as it sinks slowly toward the horizon. The air is cool, and crickets are starting to chirp, and it takes Jaskier a second to realize that Geralt is humming.

Jaskier quickly closes his eyes again and focuses on keeping his breathing even as he listens to Geralt. It’s not a tune he recognizes; nothing he’s ever sung, just a simple melody that repeats over and over. Geralt’s arm is wrapped around Jaskier to keep him upright, and his thumb brushes absently across Jaskier’s forearm to the rhythm of the song.

Something aches, deep in Jaskier’s bones, at the simple tune. It tugs at half-memories; little moments of his childhood that dissolve like spun sugar as soon as he tries to touch them. A warm sense of belonging floods through him, and he exhales, leaning back further into Geralt’s embrace.

He feels safe.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is rough in his ear and it takes Jaskier a second to realize he’s crying. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

Jaskier shakes his head as best he can, nudging Geralt’s hand palm up and carefully writing, _What song?_

He expects Geralt to brush off the question, but instead Geralt says, “I don’t know.” Jaskier draws a question mark on his palm. “I think my mother used to sing it to me.”

The ache intensifies in ways that Jaskier doesn’t understand, and he’s grateful for Geralt’s arm around him as he continues to cry. He’s not sure exactly _why_ he’s crying, but Geralt doesn’t ask, just touches his arm comfortingly and keeps humming.

Eventually Jaskier taps Geralt’s palm again. His hand trembles as he writes, _I’m angry, but not at you._ It’s like exhaling, and he suddenly feels lighter.

Geralt sighs. “I know,” he says. It seems for a second like he’s going to keep talking, but instead he pulls Jaskier closer to him. Then he leans forward and carefully presses a kiss to Jaskier’s temple.

Jaskier stills in surprise, suddenly very aware of Geralt’s slow heartbeat against his back. His hand hovers over Geralt’s palm, but before he can ask anything else, Gerald slides their fingers together.

“I care for you,” Geralt says softly, lips nearly touching Jaskier’s ear. Then he starts to hum again, rough and quiet, and Jaskier lets the sound comfort him as they continue to ride toward the sunset.


	9. in these arms of mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt make camp and talk about where they're going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this in forever, I'm so sorry! My partner surprised me by flying my best friend out to see me and sending us on a trip to the mountains which was *amazing.* And then as soon as we got back, my province declared a state of emergency and shut down all schools, so I'm now stuck at home and attempting to homeschool a teenager and a 5 year old with ADHD. I love both my kids to death, but please send me your thoughts and prayers, I'm gonna need them 😂
> 
> Also, I've started reading the books and I love how gentle and soft their relationship is, so enjoy some ridiculously sweet fluff.

Geralt wants to stay at an inn that night, but Jaskier refuses.

_I’m fine,_ Jaskier insists when the sun starts to set and Geralt tries to nudge Roach toward a small town. Geralt’s walking next to Roach now, but Jaskier’s still riding her, and the fact that he isn’t arguing about it makes Geralt worry.

“You’re not,” he insists, but Jaskier just glares at him.

_I don’t want to go to town,_ he insists. His jaw is set, but Geralt can see the slight wobble at the edge of his lip that looks like it might be followed by tears.

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, but Jaskier shakes his head, wincing when the movement tugs at the bandage.

_Please,_ Jaskier signs. He glances back at his lute, strapped across the saddle, and suddenly it makes sense. Everyone knows him, everywhere they go. Jaskier the bard, the musician, the teller of tales with a charming smile and a voice that fills rooms.

But now his voice is gone, and Jaskier doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

“Okay,” Geralt says, nodding and patting Roach’s neck. “We’ll find somewhere to camp.”

Geralt sets up most of the camp on his own, and he’s both relieved and unsettled when Jaskier doesn’t complain. He sits by the fire instead, poking at it listlessly with a stick and watching the sparks crackle and pop into the night sky.

“Do you need something for the pain?” Geralt asks once he’s finished. Jaskier worries his lip between his teeth, considering the question for a moment before nodding reluctantly. He cradles his broken wrist close to his chest and stares down at the bandages as Geralt finds the opium tincture in the bag.

“No too much,” he warns. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

_I know how it works,_ he signs once he’s handled the bottle back to Geralt. _I’ve taken it before._

Geralt raises an eyebrow as he sits down next to Jaskier. “You’re not injured often.”

Jaskier snorts. _It wasn’t for pain,_ he replies, and something close to a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. _We were young and stupid and in college, and there were… opportunities._

Geralt tips his head, studying Jaskier and trying to picture him as a deviant youth in college, sneaking out windows and getting addled with his friends. It’s not a difficult picture to paint – Jaskier’s always been sociable and sunny, and not for the first time, Geralt wonders what the hell he sees in someone like him.

Maybe he doesn’t, anymore.

_I miss it,_ Jaskier says, dragging Geralt out of his brooding.

“The opium?”

_The college,_ Jaskier replies, giving Geralt an unimpressed look. _I haven’t been back in years._ He sighs, tipping his head back and staring up at the stars. The branches above them obscure the night sky, but tiny pinpricks of light are still visible against the rich black of the night.

“You taught there,” Geralt says, and Jaskier nods. “Why did you leave?”

_I wanted—_ He uses a sign Geralt doesn’t recognize, and Geralt holds his hand out for Jaskier to spell the word in his palm. _Adventure. And I found it. With you._

Jaskier’s expression turns wistful and Geralt sighs, shifting closer. “I thought…” He chews his lip, staring down at the bandage on Jaskier’s wrist. “I wanted to…” He growls in frustration, running his hands over his face. “Fuck,” he mumbles from between his fingers.

Jaskier kicks his foot gently and he grunts, looking up at the curious expression on Jaskier’s face. _We’re going there,_ Jaskier says, eyebrows raised like a question. _To Oxenfurt._

Geralt nods hesitantly. “If you want to,” he says quickly. “I thought…” He gestures vaguely to the bandage on Jaskier’s neck. “The college, they have people there, who know more about medicine.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t look angry, so Geralt takes that as a good sign. He’s about to try to explain himself again when there’s a rustle in the bushes nearby. Jaskier’s eyes widen, and Geralt can hear his heart start to race, slamming in his chest like a rabbit’s.

“You’re safe,” Geralt says, shifting closer to Jaskier. He reaches out his arm and is relieved when Jaskier shuffles under it, curling up against him and letting Geralt hold him. “It’s probably a rabbit. Roach would know if it was dangerous.”

Roach, who is grazing nearby, nickers in agreement. 

Jaskier doesn’t answer, just rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder and stares at the flames. The silence is unnerving.

“I miss your singing,” Geralt says softly.

Jaskier tenses against him then shakes his head, and Geralt sighs, wishing he wasn’t the cause of his disbelief. There are so many things he wants to say – _you’re my best friend, I’ve treated you poorly, I wish I could take it all back and start over._

But he can’t change what’s happened and the words won’t come, so instead he slides his hand into Jaskier’s, hoping he can pass the regret and longing through the press of their skin.

Jaskier stays tense, so Geralt squeezes his hand gently and says, “I’m an idiot.”

There’s a quiet huff, then Jaskier turns Geralt’s hand up and writes _obviously_ in his palm. The pads of his fingers are callused from years of playing the lute, and they tickle where they meet Geralt’s skin. Jaskier seems like he might write something else but changes his mind, tapping his fingers idly against Geralt’s.

“Do you want to hear a story?” Geralt asks. Jaskier, who has almost fallen asleep on his shoulder, perks up immediately. Dark shadows paint his face as the fire spits and sputters, and for the first time since he’s come out of the valerian-induced sleep, he looks excited. He tries to sign something but it’s too dark for Geralt to understand, so he grunts in irritation and writes in Geralt’s palm instead.

_You never tell me stories._ Geralt can barely keep up with the letters. _I always ask._

“Mm.” Geralt nods, closing his hand around Jaskier’s and giving him a regretful look. “It’s because I’m a… how did you put it? A horse’s arse?”

_You remember that?_

“Mm.”

They sit in silence for a moment, breathing in tandem, until Jaskier nudges Geralt and pokes his palm. Geralt lets out a puff of laughter, then squeezes Jaskier’s hand and asks, “Have you ever heard of a striga?”

* * *

Jaskier falls asleep about halfway through the story. He’s heavy against Geralt’s side, head tipped onto his shoulder and fingers still twined with his. Despite being uncomfortable, Geralt stays that way as long as possible, humming quietly and watching the fire die down to nothing.

At one point, Roach nickers at him, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t judge me,” he grumbles. “You’re just as fond of him as I am.” She snorts, bumping the back of his head. “I know,” he replies, “but _you_ let him braid flowers into your mane.” Roach seems to accept this and makes a sound that’s almost a huff, then settles down behind them to sleep.

After a while, Jaskier starts to twitch under Geralt’s hands – small, erratic movements accompanied by a sound that’s almost a whimper. “Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, brushing his thumb across the back of his hand. There’s no response other than a stuttered breath. “Jas. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Jaskier shudders in response, jerking his hand out of Geralt’s and bringing his arm up to his throat as if he’s warding off a blow. Geralt’s chest aches at the gesture.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, trying his best to keep his voice low and reassuring. “Jas, love, wake up.” The endearment slips out without conscious thought and Geralt’s face flushes hot as soon as he realizes what he’s said. He’s about to try to take it back – despite the fact that Roach is the only one around to have heard it – but Jaskier slowly lowers his arm and exhales before leaning against Geralt again. 

Geralt sighs in relief, fumbling around behind him until he finds the bedroll and can pull it close to them. As carefully as he can, he shifts until he’s lying down and Jaskier’s curled up facing him, head tucked under Geralt’s chin.

“Shut up,” Geralt grumbles at Roach when she snorts at him. His cheeks still feel hot and he’s glad Jaskier’s not awake to see it.

Jaskier snuffles in his sleep, shifting closer and grasping the fabric of Geralt’s shirt in his hand. He grips it like a lifeline, and Geralt slowly, carefully wraps an arm around him, holding him close.

“Go to sleep, love,” Geralt murmurs, kissing Jaskier’s forehead. “I’ll keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's sappy as hell I apologize for nothing 💕


	10. hope and healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wants a different kind of adventure with Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took me so long to finish! Life has been *nuts* lately. Here's some fluff to make up for it :)

Jaskier wakes up curled against Geralt’s chest.

It takes him a minute to figure out where he is, and why he feels so relaxed. He’s woken from nightmares every morning since the attack, but today he feels… peaceful. There’s something else behind it, something warm and contented, and eventually he realizes that he feels safe.

He stays perfectly still as his body slowly accepts the waking – little hurts coming back piece by piece until he’s aching. He doesn’t move, though, because Geralt is still asleep, and Jaskier wants to stay here as long as possible. Geralt smells like woodsmoke, and his arm around Jaskier’s waist feels like a promise.

The moment can’t last forever, though, and eventually Geralt shifts and yawns, kicking the blanket off and rolling onto his back. When he sees Jaskier next to him, he looks surprisingly unperturbed.

“Did you sleep all right?” he asks.

Jaskier goes to reply, and before he can remember that he can’t speak, a raspy, “yes,” makes it past his lips.

He sits up immediately, bringing his hand to his throat as his heart starts to race. Geralt looks at him, wide-eyed, and Jaskier swallows around the pain in his throat as he tries again.

“Yes.”

It doesn’t sound much like a word, but it’s there.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Geralt insists, sitting up and reaching out to touch the bandage. Jaskier winces and Geralt makes an apologetic face. “Let me check it.”

Jaskier sits still as Geralt removes the bandage, making soft, apologetic sounds when it sticks to his skin. “It looks better,” Geralt says. He takes a cloth and dips it in the water he’s boiled, and uses it to dab at the skin around the cut. He repeats the motions with the bandage on Jaskier’s wrist, and Jaskier’s relieved to see that Geralt isn’t just trying to mollify him. The skin has started to knit together, and while it will leave a nasty scar – that Jaskier will obviously use for poetic reasons in his storytelling – it looks like it’s starting to get back to normal.

“Did you need more for the pain?” Geralt asks once he’s re-bandaged both wounds and dumped the dirty water behind their bedroll. 

Jaskier considers the question for a second, then shakes his head. _Not bad,_ he signs. _Hurt a bit to talk._

“Then don’t,” Geralt says sternly. “I know that’s very difficult for you.” Jaskier raises an eyebrow when he realizes that Geralt is teasing him.

_Do you think…_ Jaskier trails off and only realizes it once Geralt pokes his thigh. _Does this mean it’ll heal? My voice?_

Geralt shrugs, and the guilt that he’s been carrying around flits across his face again. “I don’t know much about medicine. Not for… for humans, anyway.”

_You are human,_ Jaskier tries to insist, but Geralt has already looked away to get something from their pack.

They spend the rest of the morning in a companionable silence, but Jaskier can feel the faint thrum of hope behind both of their movements. He’s tempted to try to talk again, but as much as he’s loathe to admit it, Geralt is right. He shouldn’t push it.

“To Oxenfurt?” Geralt asks once they’ve packed up camp. He kicks more dirt over the remains of the fire, then looks down at where Jaskier is still sitting on one of the larger rocks. “We should make it in three days. Maybe two, if you don’t slow us down.”

He’s teasing again, and it fills Jaskier with a warm sense of relief. _I’m not the one we should be concerned about, old man,_ he responds, huffing out a quiet laugh at Geralt’s indignant expression. Then he looks over at the road, chewing his lip in contemplation. The late afternoon light streams through the branches of the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and it makes Jaskier’s heart feel full.

_Do we need to?_

Geralt frowns. “Need to hurry?”

Jaskier shakes his head. _Need to go,_ he clarifies. _To Oxenfurt._

“You… don’t want to?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer right away. He tips his head back to catch glimpses of the bright blue sky through the trees, then brings his hand up to touch the bandage on his neck.

_It’s getting better,_ he says eventually. _I’m getting better._

“But what if—”

_What if?_ Jaskier agrees. _What if we get waylaid by bandits? Or a werewolf attacks us? Or – gods forbid – we find another dragon?_

“I don’t understand,” Geralt says, settling down on the log across from Jaskier’s rock. His face is drawn in an expression of confusion that makes him look so much younger than he is.

_I just mean…_ Jaskier sighs. _Anything could happen. That’s just how life works, and I don’t want to spend it looking for a way to… to fix this. To fix me._ He looks over at Geralt and gives him a soft smile. _I’d rather spend it with you._

Guilt joins the confusion on Geralt’s face and he shakes his head. “Jas… why would you—”

_I forgive you,_ Jaskier insists. _I’m still angry and upset, and frustrated, and it isn’t fair, but none of it was your fault._

“But I—”

Jaskier shakes his head. _A physicker isn’t going to be able to make this heal faster, and we both know it._ He digs the toes of his shoes into the dirt. _We’ll just have to wait and see._ Geralt stares down at his hands, not saying anything, and Jaskier kicks a rock over toward him. _Scars don’t make us broken,_ he says, smiling at the way Geralt’s eyes widen. _I want to spend my life adventuring. With you._

“Why?” Geralt asks, voice low and uncertain.

_You know why,_ Jaskier replies. _At least, I hope you do. I know you’re dense sometimes, but you can’t possibly be that blind._

Geralt doesn’t answer, and for a moment, Jaskier is terrified that he read everything wrong, and that they’re back where they were before – frustrated and at odds. But then Geralt gives him a small smile – barely a quirk of his lips – and Jaskier exhales in relief.

“You offered something to me, before,” Geralt says as he stands up and moves over to Jaskier. He reaches out a hand and pulls Jaskier to his feet.

_I did?_

“Mm.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand. “You wanted to go to the coast.” Jaskier can feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, but he forces himself to keep looking at Geralt. “Do you still want that?”

_Yes,_ Jaskier says without hesitation. _I do._

“Then let me take you,” Geralt says, and he pulls Jaskier in for a kiss.

* * *

**Six Months Later**

“You’re going to fall from there and break your wrist again.”

Jaskier cracks and eye open and looks down from his sunning spot to see Geralt next to the cottage, arms crossed over his chest. Jaskier is only about five feet up, tucked onto a small grassy outcropping that’s perfectly situated to catch the last rays of the setting sun.

_I’m fine,_ he signs. _You worry too much._

“I worry exactly the right amount,” Geralt insists, reaching out as Jaskier sits up. He helps Jaskier hop down to the ground, then pulls him close and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I’m all right,” Jaskier says out loud, voice rough and muffled by Geralt’s chest. “I’ve got you to take care of me.”

Geralt laughs and the sound rumbles in his chest. It makes Jaskier feel warm and special – he’s the only one who gets to see Geralt like this. He’s the only one who gets Geralt’s soft smiles, his ridiculous morning hair, his tipsy singing, his hands touching everywhere while Jaskier whispers, _please,_ and, _I love you._

“There are safer places to watch the sunset,” Geralt says. He pulls back and brushes Jaskier’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. It’s grown out, almost to his shoulders, and covers most of the twisted scar that stretches down past his ear.

“Mm.” Jaskier kisses Geralt’s nose. “Like in your arms?” His voice is coming back, slowly but surely, and he played his lute for the first time last night, singing a quiet song that he’d learned many years ago. He’d pretended to ignore the tears in Geralt’s eyes at the sound.

“You’re ridiculous,” Geralt says. He’s highlighted by the late evening sun, hair almost tinged pink by the light, and Jaskier things he looks fierce and beautiful. “Does this please you?” Geralt asks. Jaskier sighs happily, closing his eyes as the summer wind ruffles his hair. Light sparkles off the ocean, and the only sound around them is the quiet cawing of seagulls in the distance.

“Yes,” he says, smiling at Geralt and pulling him down for a kiss. “It pleases me very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this very angsty yet incredibly sappy adventure with me. Thank you for reading! <3


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